


Flat

by anaer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, F/M, Humor, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaer/pseuds/anaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Um.  Guys?” d'Artagnan ventured, voice high, and the hushed talking stopped.  He cleared his throat, but his voice still hadn’t returned to its normal pitch when he began talking again.  “Is that a dead body on our living room floor?”  A beat passed.</p><p>“…Possibly,” Aramis answered.   </p><p>“Do I want to know why there’s a dead body on the living room floor?” </p><p>“Probably not,” Athos replied easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The door clicked open easily, slowly swinging back into the apartment, and d’Artagnan stepped through, a contented sigh of relief playing at his lips. There was little he enjoyed more than walking through the front door of his apartment after a long day of school and work with little more to do than kick back on the living room couch and mindlessly flick through channels on the television, as had been his habit these past two months since he had first moved into this apartment. It was a system that worked for everyone in the house (but primarily him) only because his housemates were so often occupied elsewhere, whether at the bar two blocks away (Athos), in possibly any bed in the city (Aramis), or at the newest casino across town that hadn’t seen fit to bar them yet (Porthos).  This was why d’Artagnan suddenly stopped short, pleased smile dropping instantly when he walked through the door to find Aramis and Athos seated at the kitchen bar whispering madly back and forth. They were clearly irritated with one another, but d’Artagnan wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or alarmed at the fact that no bottles of alcohol were within eyeshot.  At least until, deciding to ignore them, he walked to the couch to throw his backpack down and prepare for his evening ritual and froze. Alarm.  Definitely alarm.

 

“Um. Guys?” he ventured, voice high, and the hushed talking stopped.  He cleared his throat, but his voice still hadn’t returned to its normal pitch when he began talking again.  “Is that a dead body on our living room floor?”  A beat passed.

 

“…Possibly,” Aramis answered.  D’Artagnan weighed his options very carefully before he opened his mouth to proceed.  Particularly, he considered the issue of _Guns Weekly_ sitting on the counter next to Aramis’s arm as well as the extensive sword collection he had once caught a glimpse of in Athos’s room, all in relation to the body splayed out on the opposite side of the couch, laying in a pool of its own blood.

 

“Do I _want_ to know why there’s a dead body on the living room floor?” he finally decided on, and if his voice had raised a pitch higher, who was to blame him?

           

“Probably not,” Athos replied easily.

 

“But if it makes you sleep better,” Aramis added, “you can always assume he was a burglar attempting to make off with your console or something.”

 

He shouldn’t ask.  He really shouldn’t ask, but— “ _Was_ he a burglar?”

 

Another beat.

 

“Yes,” Athos said, at the same time Aramis replied, “No.”

 

Right. “Right, then.  I’ll just, uh…I’ll be in my room.  If you need me. For anything.”  As much as he loved the woman, d’Artagnan was going to kill Constance as dead as the body on the floor that he was choosing to actively ignore. He should have known when she first introduced him to this perfect apartment that this whole setup had been too good to be true. 

 

~~~

How d’Artagnan came to be living with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis was something he preferred not to speak of but had been asked about on more than one occasion.  It was strange to most people the fact that he, a barely twenty university student, shared an apartment with three men well in their thirties, and at the time he had thought so, too.  However, he’d been desperate for a place to live, and kicked out of university housing for reasons he would rather not delve into. There may have been a bong involved, as well as more than one violation for streaking, but aside from Constance, who had forced him to explain himself when he had shown up on her front step with nowhere to live, and his Resident Assistant, who may or may not have spent two nights in the hospital following, no one would ever know the full details of what had happened in his hall that night. 

 

Still, the how of it wasn’t important. The why was what was relevant, and the why could be answered quite simply:  desperation.  Finding oneself kicked out of one’s living space mid-semester with two papers due in less than a week was frustrating enough as it was.  Life, however, got that much more complicated when he slept with a woman he met on the street and woke up in his hotel room the next morning to find his laptop and wallet missing.  And that was how d’Artagnan ended up banging on his best friend’s front door at five in the morning, much to the irritation of her eternally cantankerous husband. 

 

“Well, you can’t stay here!” Constance stated, glaring at the then teenager who stood leaning against one of her living room walls.  “This isn’t a boarding house, and even if it was, you have no money.  We can’t afford to take care of you like that, and, quite frankly, Jacques doesn’t want to.”

 

“But Constance, please, I have nowhere else to go!”

 

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you went breaking school rules, then, and getting yourself kicked off campus.”

 

“Okay, yes, I’ll give you that, but it wasn’t my fault I got robbed!  At least I wasn’t mugged, like my poor father was when he was murdered. His dying wish was for me to get a good education—”

 

“Oh, for crying out loud,” the woman exclaimed, rolling her eyes.  “Must you bring that up every single time you want something?”

 

D’Artagnan frowned. “Bring up the fact that my father was cruelly murdered in cold blood, you mean?”

 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” Constance turned away, and d’Artagnan forced himself not to notice the way her auburn hair bounced perfectly into shape as her head bobbed along.  It was bad enough that he had kissed her those two times her husband had been away – under very extenuating circumstances, he would always be keen to point out – but his jeans were entirely too tight to start appreciating any of Constance’s finer features, especially not with Jacques Bonacieux sitting in the next room over. 

 

“Look,” she began, “I might know some people who can help you.  Friends of mine; they’ve got a spare room.  Nice place, really, but I must warn you, they’re a little—odd.”

 

He frowned, perturbed by the contemplative look on her perfect, pale face.  “Odd how?”

 

“Just…odd.  I can take you to meet them, but no promises; if they don’t want you, there’s nothing else I can do to help you, you hear me?” She yelped as d’Artagnan crossed the room and swept her up into an unexpected hug.  “Put me down!”

 

“Thank you so much; you’re the best!” he exclaimed, dropping her back on her feet.  His head jerked to the side when, the moment she was free, Constance slapped him.

 

“Don’t ever pick me up like that again!” And then, a second later, “And obviously.  I’m more than you deserve, at any rate.”

 

And that was how d’Artagnan came to meet Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.


	2. Chapter 2

D’Artagnan couldn’t stop pacing. His bedroom had magically shrunk in size, it seemed, and the air in the room had turned stifling. Half of his mind suspected that Athos and Aramis had turned the heat up on the off chance that he would die of heatstroke before they could kill him, too, because – well. There was still a dead body in the middle of the living room, and given that circumstance, the two men out there seemed entirely too reasonable and unperturbed by this fact.

 

They could only be planning to kill him, he realised.  It probably wouldn’t even be one of them who did it.  He wouldn’t be stabbed or shot.  No, that’d be too obvious.  It would probably be Porthos, sneaking into his bedroom in the middle of the night to crush his much too delicate skull between the man’s giant hands.

 

A sudden rap sounded on the door, and the boy jumped, his heart pounding as he turned to stare at the door. Whoever was there knocked again, harder and more insistent this time.  D’Artagnan swallowed hard. 

 

“I know you’re in there, d’Artagnan.”

 

So it was going to be Athos who did the deed, it seemed.  The doorknob jiggled a bit, and the realisation that he had not, in fact, locked the door sent him reeling and scrambling for his desk drawer.  He just managed to grab the switchblade his father had left him out of the drawer before the latch clicked and Athos stepped into the room through the now-open door.  D’Artagnan swung around, the blade in his hand flicking into existence as he held it out in front of him.  It was a close range weapon, so it wouldn’t do much from afar, but if it came down to a fight between the two of them, youth combined with a weapon would be more effective than youth alone ever could be.

 

“Don’t you dare come any closer,” he demanaded.  Athos raised both hands in front of him, palms open, and met d’Artagnan’s eyes with that even, steady gaze that had up until today always been reassuring.  Now, though, it could only be the look of a stone cold killer.  

 

“I understand how this could look bad—”

 

“Bad? There is a dead body in the middle of the living room—you killed someone!”

 

“Aramis killed someone, actually, but—” 

 

D’Artagnan cut him off again. “Oh, right, _Aramis_ killed someone, not you, because that’s _so much better_!”

 

“If you would put down the knife and let me explain…”

 

“No, I’m not going to let you explain!” he exclaimed, inching closer to the open door.  He was slowly circling between Athos and the door, ready to make his escape at any moment.  “I’m going to the police, like any sane person!”

 

Athos’s sigh was entirely too longsuffering when it came, and d’Artagnan especially didn’t appreciate the way the man tilted his head to look at him like he was stupid.  “You don’t want to do that.”

 

“You’re not going to stop me.”

 

“Don’t be unreasonable.”

 

He was in front of the open doorway now, his back to the hall.  “Unreasonable?! How is it unreasonable to go to the police when there is a _dead body in the—_ ” Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.  D’Artagnan whipped his head around just in time for Aramis’s fist to collide with his face.   He stood, dazed for a few seconds, and then all at once collapsed. 

 

From across the room Athos’s longsuffering gaze now aimed at Aramis, who was shaking his hand out.

 

“Ow,” the man muttered. “That would’ve been much simpler if Porthos were here.”

 

“ _Really_ , Aramis?”

 

“What?  It’s not like you were going to do anything.” Athos conceded the point with a tilt of his head.  “It is a shame, though,” Aramis continued.  “I think I actually kind of liked this one.”

 

Athos conceded that point, too.

 

~~~  


Porthos was a big, burly sort of fellow and d’Artagnan liked him the instant Constance introduced them.

 

“This is d’Artagnan,” she said to the man. “He’s the one I told Athos about who needs a place to stay ASAP because he’s an _idiot_ , which is why I’m sure he’ll fit right in here with you lot.”

 

“Porthos,” the man greeted with a toothy smile, holding his hand out expectantly.  D’Artagnan offered a weak grin back. 

 

“Nice to meet you,” he said, clasping Porthos’s outstretched hand.  He was expecting the handshake.  He wasn’t expecting to be yanked forward and for the man to throw an arm over his shoulder, pulling him into the apartment. 

 

“Well, this is it, the whole place,” Porthos announced.  “If you stay here, your bedroom’ll be right down the hallway there,” he pointed to the hall next to the kitchen, “which is right next to mine.  That’s Aramis’s room, there—you’ll want to stay out of that—and Athos’s over on that side.  You understand that we need to ask you a few questions before agreeing to this.”

 

D’Artagnan nodded, and Constance piped up behind them, “But Athos did say he could crash on your couch for a few days, at the very least.”

 

“Right.  Athos’ll be back in an hour or two provided he doesn’t get too shitfaced, and I doubt Aramis’ll be around for the next week—think he’s taken with some politician’s wife at the moment.” 

 

D’Artagnan blinked. He couldn’t have heard that right. Then again…

 

He glanced back at Constance. Then again, indeed.

 

“How do you feel about swords?” Porthos asked suddenly.  D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow at the random question.

 

“They’re okay, I suppose.”

 

“Guns?”

 

“A necessary evil? Is there a point to this?”

 

“…Nah, not at all. Cards?”

 

“I’m pretty decent at them, why?”

 

Porthos pushed him towards one of the bar stools, taking the one next to him as the man produced a deck of cards from his pocket.  “You up for a game?” D’Artagnan looked at the man’s happy, smiling, brown face and shrugged.  What was the worst that could happen?

 

An hour later when Athos stumbled in through the front door—drunk, of course—to see Porthos sitting next to a pile of cash, a few coins, three pieces of chocolate, and d’Artagnan’s jeans, the boy regretted all the choices he had made in life that had brought him to this point.


	3. Chapter 3

D’Artagnan came to slowly. There was a pounding in his skull that was punctuated by a sharp, stabbing pain when he tried to move his head. He groaned. He moved to rub his aching head, but his wrists were stopped short before they could move anywhere. He tugged on them again, but they wouldn’t budge at all. So, that was it, then. Athos and Aramis had tied him to a chair to kill him. With the way his life had been going lately, d’Artagnan couldn’t say he was the least bit surprised. 

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times before they managed to focus. He was still in his bedroom. And, if the voices he could hear coming from the other side of the open door were any indication, Athos and Aramis were lingering outside, waiting to do their dastardly deed. And then, d’Artagnan realised: if he focused, he could make out what they were saying.

“—I’m sorry,” it was Aramis speaking, “but I fail to see how this is my fault.”

“You just had to kill him, didn’t you? In our living room, at that. How could you be so stupid!”

“Don’t talk to me about stupidity. Between the two of us, who exactly is the one who married an assassin? Maybe if you had better taste in women, this would never have happened!”

“And if you weren’t so damned trigger happy—!”

“I’m just being practical, Athos. Killing him is the surest bet. I’d rather not do it. I mean, I like d’Artagnan as much as you do, but—” 

“But nothing. Constance entrusted him to our care. If you cleaned up your messes better we would have no problem right now!”

“Don’t you mean if I cleaned up your messes better—!”

“Oh my god, you two are such children, would you both shut up!” And there was Porthos. His hulking frame appeared in the doorway, and he glanced in for a second at d’Artagnan before turning back to the other two. “I think he’s awake now.”

The three men filed into the room, and it took everything within d’Artagnan’s power for him to remain calm. 

Silence passed between them, but d’Artagnan refused to be the one to speak first. Finally, he won out, and Athos stepped forward, continuing with what he was trying to say before Aramis had knocked the poor boy out.

“This is a simple misunderstanding, d’Artagnan, that can be easily explained, I assure you.”

“Oh, yes, because Aramis killing someone and then you knocking me out and tying me up is obviously just a ‘misunderstanding’!” Athos looked at Porthos and Aramis. They stared back, silently communicating. And then Aramis shrugged.

“I mean, he raises a fair point.”

“Well then, if you think you can do a better job, be my guest.” Athos stepped back and gestured for Aramis to take his place. 

“Look. D’Artagnan,” Aramis began, leaning over so that he was at eye-level with the seated boy. “I’m going to be entirely honest with you. We should’ve killed you already. Probably as soon as you walked into the living room. Unfortunately, we’re faced with a dilemma because, well, we’re rather fond of you, see. We would really rather not kill you. We like you. You’re kind of adorable – like a puppy. Not to mention I one hundred percent would bang you. I actually have a goal to fuck you before the end of the year. Killing you would put a damper on that.” The weird thing, d’Artagnan realised, was that Aramis looked entirely sincere as he said that. His face was earnest, and he was nodding along to his own words. D’Artagnan didn’t even know how to respond. His mind had stopped processing around the time Aramis had called him ‘adorable’.

Athos and Porthos, however, did not share that problem. Athos let out a long groan, as Porthos barked out a laugh. 

“That’s not helpful!” Athos snapped. The glare he was shooting at Aramis could’ve killed a man deader than the body in the living room. Unfortunately, Aramis was unfazed.

“It is honest, though,” Porthos conceded, still laughing. “We do like you, which is why you’re still alive. Unlike our last few roommates.”

“Ah, yes, Vadim, for instance. And Dujon,” Aramis interjected.

“Both dead,” Porthos said bluntly.

“Bonnaire,” Athos added.

“Bonnaire was an asshole who got what he deserved,” Porthos growled. 

D’Artagnan stared at the three of them in disbelief.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Oh my god. Oh my god! I live with a bunch of serial killers! You’re nut jobs, all of you!” 

All three broke out into offended defences, demanding that he apologize and talking over each other so that d’Artagnan couldn’t make out what a single one of them was saying. At least until Porthos, bellowing a mite louder than the other two, finally said:

“We’re not serial killers, you idiot! We’re spies!”

And. Oh. Well, that certainly explained a lot.

~~~

True to Porthos’s prediction, d’Artagnan did not meet Aramis for almost a week after he first moved in. When he finally did, it was a Monday morning, and he was attempting to make a quick, throw together breakfast after burning his eggs. He was already late for class. It was just one of those mornings. And then the door to the middle room – Aramis’s room, he remembered Porthos had said – slammed open, and a half-dressed woman came storming out, with a totally naked man running behind her. 

“Wait—Marguerite!” the man who d’Artagnan assumed was Aramis tried to plead.

“I’m done with you and your bullshit!” the blonde girl shouted back, yanking open the front door. Before she stepped through, she turned back to Aramis. “I thought you loved me!”

“Well—I mean…what is love, really?” he tried, moving to grab her arm. She yanked it away before he could touch her. 

“Goodbye, Aramis,” she announced, and then slammed the door in his face. 

D’Artagnan blinked, and went back to applying a liberal swathing of butter to his toast as Aramis meandered back over to the kitchen and slumped into one of the bar stools. 

Still naked.

“You must be d’Artagnan,” he greeted. “Porthos told me about you. I’m Aramis.” 

“I gathered as much from the way that girl shouted ‘Aramis’ before she stormed out just now,” d’Artagnan responded dryly. 

“Ah, yes, um. Sorry about that. Marguerite and I have some…irreconcilable differences in how we view love.” 

“Differences that weren’t addressed until after you slept together, I take it.”

“I may have accidentally slipped a mention in of the fact that I’m sleeping with her boss, as well,” Aramis sighed. “She didn’t take kindly to it.”

“Yes, well, I find girls don’t tend to like that sort of thing, generally speaking.” 

Aramis laughed. “Maybe not the women you’re into, at least.” And the smile on his face had no right to be that charming, underneath that stupid moustache, but d’Artagnan could almost see why someone might sleep with him. 

“So does her boss also know you’re sleeping with her?”

“Anne doesn’t care who I sleep with,” Aramis declared. “Neither do Porthos or Athos, for that matter. Or Adele. Or Isabelle.” 

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. Why would Porthos or Athos’s opinion matter at all? 

“No wonder she said you don’t love her.”

“Oh my dear d’Artagnan, don’t misunderstand – to quote the song: love is a many splendored thing. Why contain it to just one person?” 

“…Right. I’ve got to go. I’ve got class.”

Aramis nodded, and hopped off the stool. “In that case, I wish you a good day. It’s been lovely to meet you.” And then he wandered back into his bedroom. Still naked. 

D’Artagnan was glad he was avidly straight. And also glad that, unlike his first meeting with Porthos, he still had his pants. He was starting to wonder if this flat share was really worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, guess who just finally watched series two. That's right, I did. And as a result here's the next chapter. This story isn't dead, I swear, I'm just longwinded.


End file.
